


The Trapdoor

by hal_incandenza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 13, Canon-Typical Queerbaiting, Case Fic, Divorce Arc 2.0, Gen, M/M, Monster of the Week, Purgatory Prayer 2.0, Society If they had actually thought about the Apocalypse World plot for more than 5 minutes, You're watching Supernatural, angel possession, meta narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29335962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hal_incandenza/pseuds/hal_incandenza
Summary: In a moment of danger in Apocalypse World, Dean lets Castiel possess him. When they get home, they don't expect anything to be different.Or: How to break the bonds of your narrative by stepping out of the frame. Featuring Divorce Arc 2.0, Cas and Jack father-son time, Mary and Dean mother-daughter time, meta stuff minus Chuck plus Billie, and lots of casefic.
Relationships: Castiel & Jack Kline, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	The Trapdoor

**Author's Note:**

> Since the finale, I've been chewing on how Supernatural could have really put Dean and Cas together within its own paradigm, and concluded the only way was with a full season arc. I wanted to rework my favorite late-season stuff, so expect: Cas and Jack father-son time, Mary and Dean bonding, Divorce Arc 2.0, and Billie as Death. I also wanted to work within the Supernatural narrative rules, and then figure out how to actively break them. So instead of canon’s man-vs-narrator, we’re doing man-vs-narrative. Or, hopefully. We'll see. I have various plans. 
> 
> Updates will start once I've gotten further along. I'm posting this now so I actually commit. See you in a month or so.

EPISODE TWO: “Sign, Seal, Deliver” 

TEASER

THE LAST DAYLIGHT WAS FADING from the little clearing around the fallen tree when they appeared. The tree had been toppled years ago in some long-forgotten summer storm; though it had sent the residents of this part of Southern Illinois to their tornado shelters, in the end, the tornado had never touched down. But the wind had sheared down this oak, tearing a gash in the canopy. Now blackberries grew rampant in the sunlight, and the dark root crown balanced in the brambles like a beach umbrella in the sand. The blackberries were budding. 

When Dean came to, he was lying on his side, his mouth and nose filled with the smell of leaf mold. Above him, Sam was crouched and looking upward, a dark profile against the dusk. Cicadas screamed in the canopy, and frogs and crickets chorused in the distance, hailing the oncoming night. 

“Try him again, Mom,” Sam was saying. “If the plan worked, they should be back on this side.”

 _Where are we?_ Dean’s eyes roved over the dark tangle of brambles in front of him, an indistinguishable snarl. One thorny tendril stroked his forehead. 

He rolled over. 

“Hey,” he said hoarsely. There wasn’t enough air in his lungs. 

His brother started, and looked down at him. “Cas?” he said. 

Dean rubbed his eye. 

“What? No.”

“Dean,” said Sam, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean could hardly make out Sam’s face, his eyes hadn’t adjusted. “You feeling okay?”

Sam helped him sit up. Dean groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Jesus,” said Dean. “Everything hurts.” 

A few yards away, Mary was leaning against an oak tree with her back to them. She held a phone to her ear. Her other arm was wrapped around herself. 

Dean exhaled. Sitting up had taken a lot of effort, and he had dirt or something in his eye. He blinked, rubbing his eyelid with his knuckle, trying to flush it out. “Did we make it back?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” said Sam, his voice tired and raw. “We made it back to our Earth. You, me, and Mom."

"So what's the plan?"

"...We aren't sure yet."

Dean frowned, one eye still closed. "Great."

The cicadas screeched above them, and the evening air moved restlessly over Dean’s skin. Mary hung up her phone. Pushing brambles out of the way, she walked back to Sam and Dean. 

Sam, still crouching, turned to her as she approached. "Anything?"

“Still no answer,” she said.

“Dammit,” said Sam. He shifted to his other knee, brambles catching at the back of his jacket. 

“What happened?” said Dean, looking from one to the other. 

Sam looked at Mary. 

So Dean looked at her too.

“We have to get back to the bunker,” she said.

She turned and left. 

Dean looked back at Sam and made a ‘what the hell?’ face. 

“Do you remember anything that happened, Dean?” he said.

“The last thing I remember is the church,” said Dean. “I think.” 

He squinted into the trees. The details were rapidly disappearing into the dusk.

Sam wasn’t saying anything. Dean turned to look at him. 

“Nothing else?” Sam prompted. “Nothing since then?”

“How long ago was that?” 

“Three days.”

Dean made another face. “Jesus.” He looked at the dark Sam shape again. “No. I got nothing.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “All right. Mom’s right. We should get moving. Come on.”

Sam climbed to his feet and offered Dean a hand. Dean accepted, and Sam pulled him up, but when Dean stood, a wave of vertigo washed over him, and he had to grab Sam’s arm with both hands. The earth tilted away below his feet, and his legs were weak and shaky, like he’d run a marathon the day before. 

“Whoa, whoa,” said Sam, holding him up. Dean focused on the gray leaves beneath his boots, blinking. 

“What’s wrong with me?” said Dean at the same time Sam said, “Oh, God, you haven’t eaten any food in three days.” 

“Oh,” said Dean, staring _hard_ at the leaves, willing himself not to black out. “Uh-huh.”

“Come on,” said Sam. “I think we’re close to a road.”

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.”

“Reassuring.”

“Just walk.”

“I’m walking, all right. Get off me.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“Okay. Whoa—oh, okay, all right, no. You’re not. Stop it, give me your arm.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I’m unbelievable? Dean, you’re falling _over_. You’re dehydrated and your blood sugar is probably at zero, will you just—”

“All right.” 

“—Mom! Mom, slow down,” Sam called out. They stumbled through the darkening wood together. Half of Dean’s face was squished against Sam’s canvas jacket as his brother held him up by the armpit. Briefly, he opened his eyes, and the black columns towered over him, spinning like they were collapsing on top of him. Wincing, he squeezed his eyes shut again. He felt drunk. Woozy and ill and top-heavy. They were stumbling down a short leafy slope, then they were on gravel, then hard flat asphalt. 

Up the road, a sixteen-wheeler was coming. It screamed towards them, the headlights bearing brightly into Dean’s squeezed-shut eyelids.

The church. 

The thunder.

The wind through the shattered windows.

_Say yes, Dean._

_You know you want to._

The bright light whooshed past with a swoop of wind, and in its wake something shivered through Dean—a bolt of feeling, like déjà vu or acute nostalgia. 

“Sam,” said Dean, eyes still closed against Sam’s arm, voice muffled. “Where’s Cas?” 

There was a pause before Sam answered. 

“We’re not sure,” he said.

*

*

*

When Dean came to again, he was in the back seat of a large, modern pickup truck with smooth, plushy seats and a noisy engine. His head was tipped back against the cab window. A seatbelt dug into his neck. Over the sound of the engine, he could hear the low murmur of the radio, and Sam talking. His mouth was dry and his head weighed a million pounds. Someone nudged his arm.

“Dean,” said his mother’s voice. “Drink this.”

He took the water bottle and drank. When he did, he realized how thirsty he was, and gulped the whole thing down, too fast, and immediately felt sick. 

“Ugh,” he said, stopping to breathe.

“Don’t drink so fast,” said Mary. “That’s all we’ve got for now.”

“Who’s got the fancy pickup?” said Dean.

“His name’s Barry. He’s taking us into town,” said Mary. “My phone’s dead, so is Sam’s, and you lost yours.” 

Then he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a motel lobby, squinting against the harsh fluorescents. He paged back looking for memories of arriving here, but he found nothing. 

Mary was handing him a power bar, telling him it was a gift from Barry, while Sam got them a room. 

“From who?” said Dean. 

“Never mind,” said Mary, giving him more water. “I’m going to go use the payphone. Stay here. You shouldn’t move around too much. But try not to fall asleep.”

“No promises,” said Dean. 

“Hey,” said Sam. “We’re in 27. Second floor.” Dean blinked up at him, wondering if he had fallen asleep. Before he could form a reply he was being lifted up—“Again with the manhandling,” Dean mumbled, trying to stand of his own accord. The power bar had helped. “Got any more of those?” 

“Those what?”

Dean gestured vaguely as Sam helped him down the hallway. “Bar,” he finally managed.

“Power bars? Yeah,” said Sam. “Let’s get you upstairs first.” 

“Where’re we going?” 

“Just—no more questions, okay, just walk.”

They made it to the room, where Sam sat Dean down on the bed and told him to take off his shoes and then eat this granola bar. Dean heard the sink turn on. Unlacing the boots turned out to be a challenge, but he managed. Opening the wrapper of the granola bar was another challenge. 

Sam emerged from the bathroom with a filled water bottle. 

“Wow,” he said, watching Dean’s fingers struggle with the wrapper. “You are seriously zonked.”

He took the bar from Dean—“Hey!”—and tore it open. 

“Drink this,” said Sam, handing him the water.

“Can I have my bar, please?” 

“Water first.”

Dean rolled his eyes and drank.

“Drink the rest of that while you eat this.”

“Gimme that.”

“Then I’m going to fill it up again and you’re going to drink all of it before you go to sleep. All right?” 

“Yeah, sounds great, Mom.” 

Sam made his annoyed noise and went back to the bathroom. After Dean finished the water bottle, he stood, a bit more steadily, and walked in socks to the bathroom. It was one of the ones with the toilet and shower on the inside of the door, and the sink outside of it. Sam was on the other side, moving around. Dean turned on the tap to fill the bottle again. 

He looked up at himself in the mirror. The person in the mirror frowned at him. 

For a horrible, distant second, that person was someone else, not himself. 

With a sickening wave of unease, Dean lifted a hand to touch his own face—but by the time he touched his cheek and saw his reflection do the same, they were both Dean again. 

His eyes roamed over his disoriented reflection. He had no wounds, but his eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles under them. There was a dark smudge of dirt under his chin, and dried blood in his ear. And there was something else, still, floating on the surface of the glass, on the skin of his face—like an afterimage from looking at an optical illusion for too long. He looked... bright. Vividly colored. 

He had a weird feeling in his stomach. 

He had a weird feeling in his throat.

He bent over, almost not quite fast enough, and threw up in the sink. 

“Dean?” said Sam from inside the bathroom. 

Dean panted over the sink, and turned on the faucet to wash it away, closing his eyes. Willing himself to keep the rest of it down. 

“Dean.”

The toilet flushed.

“I’m fine, Sam,” said Dean, eyes still closed. He didn't want to see his reflection again.

He heard the room door open. “Dean?” said Mary’s voice. “Sam? The vending machine only had peanuts, but I got some Gatorade... Dean. Are you all right?” 

He heard the plastic of the peanut bags hitting the counter and felt his stomach lurch again, and he felt her hand on his back. The touch and the sounds and the light against his eyelids—all of it was too much, it was making him sicker. 

He tried to breathe. 

“Dean,” said Mary softly. 

The bathroom door opened.

“Dean, why did you get up?” said Sam’s voice. 

The water was still running. 

A hand grabbed his arm.

“Sam—”

“Are you okay? Did you throw up?” 

“Here. I got Gatorade.”

“No, I—”

“Dean, you need to sit down—”

“All right, enough!” 

Suddenly and violently, Dean shook them off.

“Enough! Back the hell off.” 

His eyes were still shut, and he was gripping the sink, barely keeping himself up. 

He shut off the tap. 

Now it was quiet, and dark, and no one was touching him. But he didn’t know how to get to the bed. He was disoriented, but he didn’t want to open his eyes. 

There was a long, silent pause. 

Dean realized he was going to have to ask for help, but the idea of physical contact right now was repellent. He didn’t even want to speak. 

No one else spoke.

“All right,” Dean started to say. Then his throat seized up and he puked again. 

They got him into bed somehow and next thing he knew he was sinking down into a cold motel pillow while someone turned on the shower in the next room. The pipes clanked and gurgled. The pillow smelled like washed-out bleach. He slept.

* * * *

REAPER: Strange activity in this area, sir. Would you like me to dispatch somebody? Or check on it myself?

DEATH: Let me take a look.

(...)

DEATH: Leave it for now.

REAPER: Are you sure... sir? Preventing anomalies is our job, and this is anomalous...

DEATH: I think you’ll find that I do know what I’m doing, Jessica. 

REAPER: Of course. Excuse me. (...) Wait. Sir. 

DEATH: What is it?

REAPER: Look at this. (...) They’re back. 

DEATH: Who is?

REAPER: The Winchesters. 

DEATH: A _ha_. 

REAPER: They’re back on the map. But I can’t... I can’t get a fix. 

DEATH: Can’t get a _fix_?

REAPER: No, sir, ugh, I’m — I’m sorry. Look. I can see that they’re _here,_ but I can’t see _where..._

DEATH: ...And it isn’t all of them. We’re still missing two. The angel and the nephilim. 

REAPER: It shouldn’t even be _possible_ in the first place. They should never have been able to leave like that. It was a violation of the laws of nature. 

DEATH: Nonetheless, there it is. Or rather, there they aren’t. They’re still off the map. And God only knows when they’ll be back.

REAPER: Does He, sir?

DEATH: Figure of speech, Jessica. 

(...) 

DEATH: I don’t like this. 

REAPER: No sir.

(...)

DEATH: Find them. The ones who who came back. Go, now.


End file.
